Bayou Magic

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  “For the goodness they’ll give us.”

  “The goodness they’ll give us,” echoes Bear.

  “Thank you, thank you,” everyone calls as we sweep and sweep the shrimp into the ice-filled hold.

  Wearing gloves, me and Bear check corners and beneath ropes, and pluck shrimp still caught in the net. Not a single shrimp is forgotten.

  Soaking wet, our arms, legs, and backs aching, everyone’s happy.

  “Bear,” calls Bailey. “Come here.” Bailey tousles Bear’s hair and gives him a wet, sloppy hug. Pleased, Bear, eyes closed on his pa’s chest, hugs back.

  Bolden, grinning, says, “Close the hatch. Time to head home.”

  Me and Willie Mae snap the locks in place. The engine chugs to life. More sun, wind, salt, and shrimp smells. Pelicans and swallows swoop low, sniffing our boat, searching for spare shrimp.

  Bailey, Bolden, and Willie Mae are in the cabin. Laughter floats out. Bailey talks about “good eating.”

  Bolden crows, “Shrimping and the bayou belong together. Like white on rice.”

  Bear and I sit on cushions, staring over the side into blue water. We’re quiet. My bones are tired. I feel good. Tonight, I’ll introduce Bear to Mami Wata.

  “Look, Maddy. A dolphin.”

  “Where?”

  “There.”

  I gaze where Bear’s pointing. A few waves out, there’s a shadow gliding, keeping pace with the boat.

  “Hope it jumps.”

  “Me, too.” I see the tail flap up, down. It changes course, swimming ever closer to the boat. I squint. Light reflecting off the waves makes it hard to see.

  Its upper body seems more brown than gray. Long black strands—seaweed?—fan back and sideways.

  “Probably a bottlenose.” The shadow disappears. “It’s gone now. Too bad it didn’t jump.” Bear sits, cross-legged, on deck.

  Kneeling, I lean farther and farther over the boat’s side. The shadow appears again, swimming closer and closer. I think it might be Wata.

  I stretch my hand.

  A hand reaches upward. Fingertips touch. I see black eyes.

  I squeal and fall back on Bear. “Whoa!” he gasps, steadying me.

  “You kids all right?” yells Bailey, poking his head out of the cabin.

  “We’re fine,” I say.

  “What’s wrong, Maddy?”

  Breathing heavy, I say, “Secret, Bear. I saw another mermaid.”

  Scrambling up, clutching the boat’s ledge, Bear asks, “Where, Maddy? Where?”

  “There. Don’t you see her? You saw her shadow before.”

  Bear stares ever so hard, searching the sun-streaked ocean. “I don’t see anything,” he says sadly.

  “She’s there.”

  I see silver, not rainbow scales. A face lighter brown than black. Black eyes, pink lips. Unsmiling, she swims back and forth, like she’s pacing beside the boat.

  Dumbstruck, I shake my head. “She’s not Mami Wata.”

  “You mean there’re more? More mermaids?”

  “Hello,” I call. But I don’t hear sounds back.

  “Look!” I shout. “Another mermaid!”

  “Where?”

  “And another,” I point right.

  “I don’t see anything,” Bear complains. “Not even a shadow.”

  “You believe me, don’t you?” It’s important that Bear believes me.

  “I believe you, Maddy.”

  The mermaids keep pace with the boat. “Grandmère couldn’t see them, either.”

  “If Queenie couldn’t see them, I surely won’t. What do they look like, Maddy?” Bear asks, good-natured, excited.

  “One has black eyes and silver scales. This one, treading right here, has tan skin and white hair. All three seem young.” I pause. Three.

  “The third one, Maddy. What does she look like?”

  My throat feels dry. “Her scales are bright blue. She’s wearing a circle of yellow flowers on her head.”

  “I’ve bet they’re beautiful.”

  “They are.” Heartache comes in threes. But I can’t believe these mermaids mean harm.

  All three raise their arms. They seem to be embracing the whole sky.

  Their arms lower, and they point to the horizon. I search the distance, the invisible line from their fingers, through air, stretching to where water meets sky. And then I spot it.

  A thin, black line like someone took a felt marker and drew. And drew. And drew.

  The line thickens.

  Scared, I remember my dream.

  Black ink—no, crude—spreads like a thick blanket over the water.

  Panicked, I shake Bear’s arm. “Do you see? Do you see?”

  “Shhh, Maddy, shhh.” Patting my back, Bear tries to comfort me.

  “I’m not crazy, Bear.”

  “Never thought you were.”

  Mermaids. Blackening water. I’m not sure what it means. Water laps against the boat; crests of foam rise and fall. “The mermaids are gone,” I whisper, my voice catching.

  Washed with sunlight, the sea sparkles blue again.

  Motorboating, hearing whiffs of grown-ups’ chatter, smelling sea and shrimp, the day seems happy. But, trembling, I slump on the deck.

  Something bad is going to happen.

  Quiet, Bear sits beside me. He’s patient.

  “I did see a shadow, Maddy. That must mean something.”

  “Yes, Bear.”

  But my dream stays with me.

  Something bad will happen.

  Absence

  The Gulf of Mexico is so beautiful. It swishes with white-tipped waves. Bailey climbs into a motorboat that taxis him away toward the rig. Farther and farther out to sea, Bailey looks smaller and smaller as the motorboat bounces, slices, and cuts through salt water. Bear climbs a tree and waves. Grandmère walks home.

  I keep watch long after I can’t see the boat, searching the horizon for new signs.

  Being brave is hard. New things happen all the time—like coming to the bayou, meeting Grandmère and Bear, swimming with Mami Wata.

  Will I be brave enough to make it through to my story’s end?

  Three nights pass. Nothing happens.

  Beside me, on the porch, Bear snores. Inside the cottage, Grandmère sleeps. I hope she’s having happy dreams.

  I can’t sleep. The wood slats are too hard. A mosquito bites. My mind won’t rest. I keep dreaming of darkness covering water.

  I walk round to Sweet Pea’s shed. She’s sleeping, her pointy beak and head tucked beneath her wing. She’s warming eggs. Sweet Pea’s going to be a momma.

  The half-moon is more yellow than white tonight. It doesn’t look right. I sniff. Instead of smelling of life, tonight the bayou smells sour, like dead fish. I hug my knees. Heartache comes in threes. Even if it’s mermaids?

  A bird with a crooked wing means sorrow. Old Jake’s bird was broken and crooked.

  I bite my nails. If I were home, I’d be reading a book, hiding from my sisters. Or maybe I’d be helping Ma cook gumbo?

  Sweet Pea opens her eyes. She’s telling me to rest.

  “’Night, Sweet Pea. I can’t wait to see your chicks.”

  I turn, slow.

  Bushes and leaves make long, crooked shadows. When I listen hard, the bayou is filled with chirps, cracklings, and stirrings of small creatures. To my left, a rabbit hops, its head tilting left, then right. Its teeth munch grass. I wonder if this gray-brown rabbit was born this spring?

  I crouch, watching the rabbit eat. Fluffy fur. Long pointy ears. Black eyes.

  The rabbit sees me. It doesn’t run.

  I gasp. Mami Wata is swimming, pointing at fire. Huge, towering flames rise from the ocean, licking the sky. In the air, smoke billows; in the water, there are swirling webs of black.

  Mami Wata looks terrified. She covers her eyes.

  I run. “Bear, wake up. We need to get to the water.”

  “I’m tired, Maddy. Let me sleep.” Damp hair sticks to his foreh
ead. Part of me wants to let Bear sleep, but I need to go. Now.

  “You have to drive Mister Cochon’s airboat.”

  “He’ll skin me for sure.”

  “Bear. We must!” I don’t tell him how confused I am. Doesn’t water put out fire? “Please, Bear.”

  He jumps up, slips his feet into his shoes. “Let’s go.”

  I leap off the porch, half running. Grandmère should sleep, I decide. Stay happy dreaming as long as she can.

  My feet move faster and faster. Bear is right beside me, picking up speed, panting.

  Even with headlights, riding through pitch-black dark is frightening. Bear doesn’t gun the airboat’s engine. He steers carefully, slowly.

  “Hurry.” I squirm, barely able to keep still.

  “Don’t want to hit a log. Or a gator.”

  “I know, Bear.” But I don’t tell him I’m afraid of what I don’t know. Where’s Mami Wata? Not seeing her makes me more afraid. Where’re the fireflies?

  “Here.” Bear leaps off the boat and ties it to the wharf. My feet crunch sand. I look right, left. The stretch of beach is lovely, calm. There’s nothing wrong.

  “You okay, Maddy?”

  “I don’t know.” With the Gulf and sky both dark, its impossible to see the horizon. I feel like I’m at the end of the world.

  The water whooshes. The waves barely lap the shore.

  “Listen.” It’s a low rumbling sound, like shifting earth, sand. An earthquake?

  “I don’t hear anything, Maddy.”

  “It’s coming. It’s getting louder. Don’t you hear it, Bear?” It’s coming, I think. The bad is coming.

  The rumbling, groans, growls—louder and louder, like a train racing too fast on a track. Then, bam, boom. Explosions, like bombs being dropped in the distance.

  “There.” I point at the far left horizon.

  Just like my vision—flames, yellow and orange, lick the sky.

  Flames spiral higher and higher, like a towering candle. It’s beautiful, I think. Bright colors against the black night.

  But I don’t understand how there can be a fire in the ocean. How flames, fierce as a giant torch, can burn and burn and burn on the horizon.

  “The rig!” Bear shouts. His face is twisted, ugly-sad. “Pa? Pa!”

  I didn’t think. The oil rig is on fire.

  Bear kicks off his shoes, runs, then dives into the water.

  “Stop. Stop, Bear. Please stop.” Scrambling forward, I kick off my shoes, too.

  Water is up to my chest. I dive, swimming after Bear, who’s pulling faster and farther away.

  I can’t see him, only the splash his body makes.

  I’m not used to swimming in the sea. Bear’s the stronger swimmer. I’ll never reach him.

  I think: Bailey’s dead. I don’t want to believe it, but I somehow know. And Bear might drown swimming out to sea.

  I swim hard, harder than I’ve ever swum before.

  I’m a mermaid, I tell myself. I don’t need to breathe. My legs are powerful like a tail, propelling me. My arms are quick, slapping strong. Water knows to move out of my way.

  I swim.

  I see Bear’s feet, his billowy pants. I reach… and catch his ballooning shirt. I grip it tight. I kick and clutch with both hands.

  Bear jerks, shouting, screaming, “Let me go. Let me go!” We’re both coughing, swallowing water. Struggling, we’re off-balance, pushing each other under. Salt stings our eyes. We’re both gasping. “Let me go.” Bear heaves forward, submerging both of us. His foot kicks my shoulder. My arm hits his head. We’re both going to drown.

  I let go. I have to.

  Bear swims toward the distant fire.

  “Bear!” I scream, gasping, treading water. “Come back. I can’t swim as good as you.”

  “I’ve got to save Pa.”

  “You can’t. The fire is miles away.”

  “I can.”

  “You can’t.”

  Bear lifts and falls with the waves. Currents are pulling us farther apart.

  “Help me, Bear. I don’t swim as well as you.”

  His hair is wet and plastered, his checkered shirt puffed, the collar tangled about his throat. Flames spike into the sky.

  I need Bear to understand what I’m saying. I need him to want to save me. Otherwise, he might never come back.

  Bear stops swimming and floats.

  I keep quiet. There’s nothing to say. His pa is dead. Waves, one after another, rock us. We’re drifting farther from shore. If we get too far out, neither of us will have the strength.

  There’s a splash, a shadow gliding by me. Mami Wata? It has to be, I decide. I know Mami Wata wouldn’t let me drown. But what about Bear?

  In the Gulf, flames keep glowing, steady and strong.

  “I need you, Bear. I can’t make it back without you.”

  He keeps floating, giving no sign that he hears me.

  “I need you to help me.”

  Bear lifts his head, flips, and swims to me. He grabs my hand. “All right, Maddy. I’ll help you.”

  Bear is saving me.

  And I am saving Bear.

  Healing

  Grandmère tucks Bear into my bed. She gives him hugs and sassafras tea, and as he cries, she sings him to sleep.

  I feel useless and sad.

  Come morning, Mister Cochon visits our shack. He stands near the table, too miserable to sit. He says, “Oil explosion. The deepwater rig. Nine men missing, two found dead.”

  “Pa?” asks Bear, lying on the cot. His eyes are rimmed red with shadows.

  I can see Mister Cochon wants to lie. To say Bear’s pa is still missing.

  “He’s dead, Bear. I’m sorry.”

  Bear slides back the roped sheet to hide.

  I pat Mister Cochon’s hand. “Bear knew,” I say. “He already knew.”

  How to explain Bear was hoping beyond hope? Wanting the impossible.

  For two days, firefighting boats battle the blaze with dynamite and water.

  “Dynamite blows flames away from oil,” says Bolden. “Like blowing out a candle. No oil to feed on, water can put the fire out.”

  It is awful watching Bear tremble uncontrollably each time he hears the dynamite explosions. Hands about my knees, I sit near his feet and cry. Grandmère keeps him warm and puts bundles of thyme, for strength, beneath his pillow.

  The oil-rig fire is a hard candle to blow out.

  Sunday, the third day since his pa died, Bear eats breakfast with us. Pancakes. Three slices of ham. Then, without saying a word, he lies back on the cot again, sliding the sheet shut.

  It is good seeing Bear eat, but I don’t eat much. I’m too worried.

  “There’s more to come,” I say, softly. “More that I dreamed.”

  “What do you mean, Maddy-girl?”

  I look at the curtain, knowing behind it Bear is tangled in sheets, but I don’t know if he’s asleep or awake.

  “On the porch,” I say, and Grandmère follows me. I hold tight to the rail.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Me, neither, Grandmère. I dreamed the fire. But I dreamed more.”

  “Like what?”

  “Spiders spitting, spinning oil. A black line, growing bigger and bigger, covering the Gulf.

  “It isn’t over, Grandmère. It’s not the end.”

  Grandmère strokes my cheek. “Sometimes we just have to bear the hard times.”

  I don’t want to bear it, I think. I want all the unhappiness to go away.

  “I didn’t know Bear’s pa was going to die,” I blurt.

  “Sometimes dreams, visions don’t show all there is to know.”

  “Too many mysteries, Grandmère.”

  “You’ll puzzle it out. Won’t you, Maddy?” Grandmère is worn out, her shoulders slumped. She’s worried, grieving, too.

  “I will,” I say.

  I walk south.

  The air isn’t fresh anymore. Gusts of wind bring smells of burnt, simmer
ing crude. Black specks float in the air. I don’t want to see the Gulf. My head hurts. What’s going to happen?

  “Hey, Maddy. Help me cook.”

  “Hey, Mister Cochon.” His cheer makes me smile. “What you cooking?”

  “Whatever you want. Keep me and you busy. Maybe get Bear to eat.”

  “He’s had pancakes. Ham.”

  “Good for Bear. Got to keep his strength up. What else does Bear like?”

  “Redfish with salt, a little pepper. Onions and rosemary.”

  “Let’s go fish, Maddy. I’ll take you in my airboat!”

  Mister Cochon doesn’t adventure as well as Bear. He likes to fiddle. Likes to have the tackle, the fishing poles, the Coleman cooler just so. He drives the airboat put-putter slow, not fast and rollicking like Bear. It’s past noon when we reach his favorite fishing spot, far south, near the Gulf waters.

  I pinch the bug onto the hook. “Thank you, Bug.” Drop my line over the side. Mister Cochon does the same, and we sit and wait and say nothing. That’s the best way to fish.

  Breathing, watching my line sway, I start to feel better. Maybe Bear can live with Grandmère? Maybe with my family in New Orleans? No, Bear wouldn’t like that. He’d be too cooped up in a city without wild animals, wild bushes, and trees.

  “What’s that, Mister Cochon?”

  “Bunch of mud.”

  “It’s moving!”

  Mister Cochon steers next to the submerged log and the wiggling mud. “My word, it’s a pelican.” He cuts the engine. One hand holding tight to the steering wheel, he leans sideways, his thick hand scooping the bird.

  “Here, it’s slippery.”

  The pelican, black with oil, is in my lap. It’s squirming, scared, trying to get away. But its wings don’t flap and its body slips and slides.

  “Hold tight, Maddy. Needs help. Else it’ll die.” Mister Cochon turns the key. The airboat fan roars. Mister Cochon is speeding faster than Bear ever did.

  I pat-pat the bird. Oil stains my hand, a thick, sticky seal. The smell makes me nauseous. Limp, the bird’s head hangs off my lap. It’s still breathing. “Hold on!” I shout, hoping Pelican can hear above the fan’s roar.